


Singing in the Rain

by mustachemoose



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Apocalypse
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, NSFW, thats pretty much it tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 01:50:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustachemoose/pseuds/mustachemoose
Summary: Trying to have a little personal time is one thing for Peter Maximoff, but having an audience in the next room over is another. Especially when that audience just so happens to be the one person he can't stand, who also happens to be having some personal time too. (nsfw)





	Singing in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, where to begin? This isn't the first time I've written anything nsfw, but it is the first time I've ever posted my more raunchy work. Initially, this was supposed to be nightangel, but that idea was scrapped because I wanted to give Peter and Angel a shot (what even is their ship name?). This was also supposed to involve music, hence the reason I chose the more musically inclined characters, but that would've taken too much time. That's also the main reason the title is the way it is, but it can be taken in a different context given the circumstances in the story (wink wink). Also a bit of a writing exercise for myself, I wanted to try having a nsfw interaction between characters without physical contact. Pardon the rambling, please enjoy.

Peter Maximoff likes to put a little irony into his life, mostly in the form of taking certain things slow. He takes it in small doses, but for a mutant whose life revolves around being fast, doing anything at such a leisurely pace seems painfully strange. It’s a strangeness that he embraces, just like how he embraces his upper thigh in a tight grip.

 

He stretches across his bed in his new room at Xavier’s school, comfortable on the plush duvet below him in nothing more than his shirt and underwear. For some reason or another, his hormones began to act up. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that he’s young and his libido is as unpredictable as it is insatiable, or maybe it’s the wild weather raging outside that awoke a strange urge to comfort himself. He doesn’t really know, nor does he care. All Peter can wrap his mind around is giving into his primal needs.

 

It’s raining outside, the drops splattering against the rooftop more on par with a small typhoon than a gentle sprinkle. Everyone thought it was Storm’s doing, but funnily enough, she had nothing to do with it, and she couldn’t do anything about it either. She can control weather, yes, but since she’s young and inexperienced, there’s only so much she can do. So, the entire school gets to suffer the massive storm raging outside. What makes it worse is that the water causes the electricity to flicker on and off, much to Hank’s dismay. No matter how hard the man tries, his technology isn’t up to the task of fighting off mother nature. There are some complaints - honestly, who wants to be stuck in a house with no power? - but everyone gives in and enjoys snuggling by the fireplace or sitting down with a candle and a good book. When the Professor asked him if he planned on joining the rest of the students downstairs, Peter gave an excuse about needing to fix up his room, which made sense given he did just move in a few days ago, so the man let him be. Too bad Peter’s interests lie more in shoving his hands down his pants rather than dusty boxes. 

 

It’s a slow dance between his fingers and his body, the way they trail up his thigh enough to leave goosebumps. Peter continues up, under his shirt and over his stomach, not stopping until his fingertips graze his chest. Pinching one of his nipples only causes his body to jolt, electricity flowing to the spot between his legs. He’s not entirely hard, but there’s a small tent forming in his boxers, and he intends to get it at full attention. Instead of grabbing his length like some crazed teenage boy and jerking off fast enough to literally set his skin ablaze, he settles on rubbing at his chest with one hand, the other massaging his hip bone. The sensation of his nails trailing over his sternum and clavicle, fingertips digging into his upper thigh, it makes him squirm.

 

If he closes his eyes, Peter can see a form slowly growing in his mind, some shadowy figure looming over him. He doesn’t have a particular person in mind, so he enjoys the company of an imaginary silhouette instead. This figure is straddling his waist, running their hands over his chest and through his hair, tugging at the strands in a tight grip. They lean down to nibble at his neck, a sensation he wishes he could feel, but it’s nothing more than an illusion. He honestly can’t remember the last time he got a hickey from anyone. It’s not like he hasn’t been on a few dates in the past few months, but those were a bust because his partners couldn’t deal with a mutant constantly running around like a windup toy on jet fuel. Which meant a severe lack of love bites, and Peter having to literally take matters into his own hands. He can’t help but feel a little offended at that, given he considers himself prime biting material. He shouldn’t have to resort to imagining some fake person sucking at his neck and shoulder, but he has no choice, he’s too horny to do anything about it. 

 

Without realizing it, his hand travels downward and palms at the bulge forming in his boxers, the friction between cotton and sensitive skin not enough to satisfy, but strong enough to make him groan. Part of him demands he move things along already and get to the point, but he ignores it in favor of torturing himself with the slow pace. A speedster forcing himself to take his time, would that make him a masochist? Perhaps, but the smoking gun has to be Peter’s other hand closing around his throat, pretending it belongs to the shadow atop him. Even while being choked, he can no longer fight off the urge to be noisy, he’s too excited to stop. Besides, there’s a very slim chance anyone can hear him; most everyone is downstairs chatting up a storm, while the rain and thunder outside drown out the rest, the only way anyone would be able to hear him is if they were in the next room over.

 

Next room over… Something clicks in Peter’s brain and the figure on top of him starts to take a different shape. It no longer looks like some ambiguous shadow, but a person. They have piercing eyes and a smug grin, hair that falls across their forehead in soft curls and a sharp jaw. He tries so hard to fight off this encroaching thought, but his subconscious lets it grow and take form and when he stares at it in his mind’s eye, it grows wings that spread across the room. Peter shoots up and forces his eyes open, his hands clenching the bedspread beneath him. 

 

Angel. He thought of Angel. It makes him a little sick to his stomach, not to mention it kills his good vibes and makes him soft. 

 

Angel lives in the room next door, and Peter really wishes he didn’t. The guy is a Grade A jackass, who deserves a good kick to the teeth instead of room and board here. He took everything the Professor generously provided for granted, and didn’t even say thank you. Honestly, if it weren’t for Xavier, that bitchy pigeon would still be stuck under a pile of rubble. He’s a complete and total pretentious, douchey jerk. So, why in the hell did Peter let him, of all people, slip into his mind while he is at his most vulnerable? It couldn’t be because he thought of the room next door, he’s done that before for many different reasons and not once did that asshole take over his mind like this. Well… he did think of Angel from time to time, mostly to mentally berate him for his stupid antics (playing music too loud, scratching up the walls with his wings, getting drunk in the middle of the night, etc.). The worst had to be that the shithead actually made a small hole between their walls that had yet to be repaired, so Peter covered it with a poster, which did nothing to block out the noise. Not once, though, did he ever think of him while he was in the middle of jerking off. That’s a completely foreign concept to Peter that makes him flop back against his pillows and forget about the task at hand. He needs a minute to reevaluate his life before attending to his little Peter.   

 

…

 

Angel hates the rain. Initially because the water made his wings wet and hard to fly, but now he hates it because the cold rattles the metal on his back and makes him ache. So, instead of going on the roof to smoke like he usually does around this time of day, he has no choice but to remain indoors, pressing his face against the window in the living area. People pass him, talking, laughing, oblivious to his constant brooding and inner turmoil. Either that or they're ignoring him. By now, everyone picks up on the fact he prefers solitude and cigarettes over acting like a decent person, so they leave him be, mostly to avoid his temper tantrums. While he likes that - it gives him a strange sense of power over everyone else - today, it only reminds him of how lonely he truly is in the world. 

 

There had been plenty of others in the past; nothing more than one night stands or quickies in alleyways, and while those were a raunchy sort of fun, they were meaningless. Here, though, here is different, whether that be good or bad has yet to be determined. The only people he can possibly get any action from are baby faced virgins or people that just plain hate him. Going out seems pointless too, since he now has to cart around heavy, metallic wings that scare off any potential lovers. So, he's essentially bound to an empty bed in the mansion, today especially. His mind drifts, sorting through the other occupants. There is a chance someone might be up for a little action, it seems possible enough given the copious amount of mutants present. Although, it's also a bit redundant given he knows most of them hate him, but he's a little desperate right now. What can he say? The rain brings his already shitty mood down to hell, and he wants something to distract him, even if it's temporarily. 

 

There's that redhead, Jean, but that Cyclops kid is attached to her hip. Maybe they'd be up for a threesome? Given that Jean’s now walking by and shooting him a glare, that's definitely out of the question. Storm? Maybe, but her interest seems to lie more with Jubilee than anything else. Which means Jubilee’s off limits too, unless he wants a lightning bolt to the head. There's Nightcrawler, but after everything that little snot did to him, he'd rather not partake in that party. Angel lists off the other potential bedfellows for the evening, even including some of the instructors. Hank? No, he's as straight as he is nerdy. Mystique? Nah, she'd probably strangle him for even thinking about it. That one teacher with curly hair and glasses? If he couldn't figure out her name, he highly doubts she'd be up for anything. 

 

...What about Peter? 

 

He tries to shove that thought out of his mind as hard as he can mentally muster. It's pointless though, it just floats back in and Angel lets it. Peter seems to be on a different level. First off, he's one of the very few students here who are fully grown, so that means he has some experience and control over his hormones. Being fully mature also means a fully mature body, including thick thighs from all that running. Ironically, that's where his maturity ends because his mind hasn't caught up with the rest of him. Angel would've thought a man known for his speed would have quick wit too, but Peter is a little childish. Something he hates from others, but with him, it's oddly charming. 

 

Admittedly, he formed the smallest of crushes on the man when they were properly introduced, but his feelings were far from reciprocated. Angel wasn't surprised. He barked at anyone for simply looking in his direction, including Peter. Actually, Peter got it the worst, because Angel didn't want to confront his feelings. Insults, hand gestures, cigarette butts, you name it, they all got thrown at him. So, understandably, the man doesn't like him. What makes it worse has to be that Peter now lives right next door to him, so close yet so far. Angel honestly wasn’t helping his case when he punched that hole in the wall they share. In his defence, he was drunk and sad and thinking about Peter, so he took out his frustration on the nearest thing.  

 

Now that he has the mutant on his mind, he realizes that he hasn't seen Peter at all today. He usually spent his time in the training room or running around on the grass, but given the power surges from the water pouring outside, he's nowhere to be seen. There is a chance that he's in his room, probably unpacking a few boxes or listening to music. An image forms in Angel’s mind of Peter with his headphones on, looking so lost and dreamy while he mouths a few lyrics and dances around his room. It's so damn cute and Angel hates himself for thinking of it. He already feels like complete shit, he doesn't need his pointless crush on top of that. 

 

He catches a young mutant staring up at him from the doorway, a little telepath unintentionally reading his thoughts. Corrupting a young mind with his mental filth isn't on his to-do list, so he stands up and heads towards his room, far away from everyone else. The other kids seem more interested in playing around or socializing, so there shouldn't be a lot of people around his bedroom. Angel strolls up the stairs, wings pressing to his shoulders to avoid scraping the walls, while the few people in his way scramble to avoid him. By the time he reaches his room, the metal on his back seems to turn to lead and he just wants to crash on his mattress. 

 

As he passes by Peter’s room, he presses his ear to the door for a quick second, but all he hears is silence. Well, that and a boom of thunder from outside, strong enough to rattle the house to its foundations. Angel pushes away and stomps into his room, his footsteps under the cover of heavy rainfall. The curtains are open and all he sees are grey skies and water showering down, and he can’t help but think of being back in Berlin. Living there was shit, the cage fighting was shit, and the people were shit too. The only consolation he had was himself in the middle of the night, in the dark, far away from everything when he could take himself in hand and forget for just a moment. He supposes he could do that now. It’s not like he has anything better to do, and having a certain mutant stuck on his brain gets him a little riled up. 

 

Angel crashes on his bed with a sigh, pushing his wings out of the way so he can lean against the wall. The lovely hole he punched into it rests just above his bed, so any noise he makes travels to the room next over. That’s okay, he didn’t hear Peter in there, so he’s in the clear. Besides, the rain is loud as hell anyway, and it’s not like he’s going to be screaming out in ecstasy. He carefully maneuvers his jacket off, as well as his shirt, leaving him in nothing but his torn up jeans. The boots weighing his feet down get thrown to the other side of the room, smacking the wall with a couple of dull thuds, but he couldn’t care any less. Reaching into his pants and just grabbing himself doesn’t seem very appealing, mostly because his mind is foggy and that makes it impossible to get any blood flowing. 

 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, focusing until a blurry figure appears in his mind, getting clearer by the second. It’s Peter - of course it’s Peter, who else would it be? - and, good God, he looks good enough to eat. Angel would’ve thought that the drugs and booze killing his brain cells would warp his image into something hellish, but hot damn, his imagination must be stronger than he thought. Peter is looking at him, eyes dark and hair tousled, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He’s wearing his usual look of a t-shirt and jeans, only missing his jacket because, while he did look good in it, he looks so much better in a tight shirt. Angel never took him for the aggressive type, but the Peter in his mind marches straight towards him, eyes malicious and penetrating. Angel lets the man pin him against a wall, as hard and rough as his stare, and it makes him groan at the back of his throat. Peter pushes his face closer, barely brushing their lips together, his hands keeping Angel’s shoulders in place. Shit… his jeans got a little tighter. 

 

Fantasy could never compare to reality, but fantasy is all he’s ever going to get, so he takes what his imagination can offer. Even if he can’t feel Peter against him. At least he can pretend that the man grabs the back of his head and forces him into a rough kiss, strong enough to steal his breath. The hand creeping between his legs is no longer his but Peter’s, groping him harshly and Angel loves every second of it. Although, it might’ve been a mistake to go without underwear this morning, because he can feel his zipper scraping against his dick. Peter takes care of it by unbuttoning his jeans and slowly pulling down the zipper, maintaining eye contact as he reaches in and grabs him. When Angel can feel himself pulsating in his hand, he lets out a small moan. Would Peter be into dirty talk? And what would he say? Maybe something like, “You like that, baby?” or, “Tell me how badly you want me right now.” or…

 

“What the fuck?”

 

Angel nearly rips his dick off when he realizes that voice is real. 

 

…

 

Peter didn’t pay attention to the time, he was too busy staring up at the ceiling and wondering why he pictured someone he hated on top of him. Did he really hate him? That seemed like a stupid question to ask, of course he did, but the longer he thought about it, the more confused he got. The confusion continued when he heard noises in the next room over, and when he listened closer, a moan floated into his eardrums from the source of confusion himself. Can he really be blamed for voicing his concerns? He can hear scrambling on the other side, Angel cursing to himself under his breath. Honestly, that damn hole in the wall makes every sound clear as day, so he isn’t surprised to hear every little movement and noise the other makes. It also happens to rest above his pillows, so Peter nearly falls off the bed when the other speaks because it sounds like Angel is talking right in his ear. 

 

“Uhh… I didn’t know you were in your room.” He says, sounding so unlike himself, since this is usually the point where he yells and calls Peter a few choice words that would make any nun faint. Peter sits up and scoots down on the bed, turning around to stare up at the poster on the wall, but he has to hold back a snort because it’s a  _ Jaws _ poster and it’s like the shark is speaking to him. Admittedly, it would probably freak him out if he was high right now, but he’s not much of a stoner, so he’s sober enough to respond, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to set off a few flares in here so you’ll know next time.” 

 

For once, he hears Angel let out a chuckle. He usually scoffs, or outright tells Peter to take his shitty jokes and shove them where the sun don’t shine, so this is a new development. Angel doesn’t say anything, so he continues, “Don’t you usually turn on your stereo while you do weird shit in your room?” 

 

“Fuck you, man, I didn’t think you’d be listening in on me while I jerk off, you fuckin’ perv. Besides, you always bitch whenever I do, so what the hell do you want me to do?” Ah, there it is, the trademark Angel anger. It isn’t hard to get the pigeon’s panties in a twist. 

 

Peter wants to call him a sinner for touching himself and that he’s going to go blind if he keeps it up, but he’d be a hypocrite if he did, not that Angel needs to know that. “I don’t know, bro.” He says, waving a hand around as if the other could see him. “Go do it in the shower like everyone else? Better yet, go do it on the roof. Ain’t nobody stoppin’ ya.”

 

“In the rain? Are you mental? No, wait, of course you are, I’ve seen how many twinkies you eat on a daily basis.”

 

Peter lets out the most obnoxious gasp he can muster and clutches a hand to his chest, shouting back with shock in his voice, “How dare you! I’ll have you know I survived off of twinkies for a whole month.” The other releases a groan, and immediately, Peter is reminded of the noises he heard earlier. Fighting down the heat on his cheeks, he continues, “What’s wrong with a little rain on the roof? You go up there all the damn time anyway. Besides, it’s kinda kinky and you seem like you’re into nasty shit, makes sense to me.”

 

The following silence makes Peter simultaneously proud and upset. Proud because he won their little game of banter and got the other to shut up, but a part of him wants to continue hearing his voice. Maybe Angel was right, the twinkies might’ve been screwing up his mind. It goes on for so long that he opens his mouth to ask him if he’s alright, but he snaps it shut when the boy says, “... The rain makes my wings hurt.” From what Peter learned, Angel’s wings weren’t always the sharp set of metallic feathers they are now. When asked, Kurt told him about the beautiful feathers he had on his back and how guilty he felt for frying them. Then that big, blue weirdo with the god complex came along. The most Apocalypse ever did to Storm or his father was amplify their powers and change their look, his transformation of Angel was the most extreme. Peter didn’t have to ask, he could tell by the deep scars he’d catch whenever Angel struts around without a shirt, and they look as angry as he does on a regular basis. 

 

For once, Peter doesn’t really know what to say. He’d usually respond with snark, or a quip or two, but given the sighs coming from the other side of the wall, he’d be a total douche if he did. Maybe, just maybe, he can share in the embarassment so Angel won’t feel totally alone. It might hurt his ego and give the kid something to lord over him, but Peter doesn’t mind a little self-sacrifice, even if it means letting the enemy win. He takes a deep breath and settles back against his pillows, mostly to make his voice clearer when he mutters, “Eh, it’s cool, man, jerk off where ever you want. Honestly… that’s what I was doing myself.” 

 

…

 

Did he hear that correctly? Peter was… doing it too? Angel turns his head to stare up at the hole in the wall, something blocking his view of the next room over, but he can hear Peter so clearly, as if he’s right next to him, and it hurts. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t swallow down, a mass of words all tangling themselves together and trying their best to come out in a coherent sentence, choking him in the process. Damn Peter. Damn him and his cute, stupid face and nice personality and his general knack for being so damn likeable. And damn him especially for admitting that out loud because now all Angel can think of is Peter touching himself. He can’t fight off the groan bubbling at the back of his throat, the image is too enticing. It’s obvious Peter hears him, mostly because Angel can hear the way his breath hitches, a noise he’d like to hear over and over again. 

 

Angel’s mutation has too many advantages to name; besides flight, there’s also a small healing factor, extra muscle mass which makes him stronger, and especially, powerful vision and hearing. Now that the rain is dying down a bit, he can better hear the mutant in the next room. The rustling of his bedspread, the way he clears his throat and swallows, he can even tell that Peter is running a hand through his hair. If it weren’t for the rain, he’d probably be able to hear his heartbeat, with enough focus. He has to say something, anything, he’ll lose his chance if he doesn’t. Although, finding the right words to say in response to something so intimate is quite the challenge. He’s so grateful that Peter can’t read his mind, or else, he would’ve heard Angel’s nasty thoughts a long time ago. Angel can hear the other inhale, probably ready to tell him that he’s going to leave or something along those lines, so he blurts out, “What were you thinking about?”

 

Never, in his entire life, did Angel want to smack himself more than right now. What the hell kind of freaking question is that?  _ What were you thinking about?  _ He might as well asked if Peter is into BDSM or something. All he can hear is the other breathing, holding perfectly still. Shit, he’s never going to hear the end of this. Peter’s probably going to laugh at him and call him a creep and-

 

“Well, to be honest, not much. I wasn’t in the mood to think about anyone specifically.” Peter says nonchalantly. Angel can picture him leaning back, picking at his nails with a bored expression. He feels relief wash over him, the muscles in his shoulders uncoiling, until Peter adds, “That’s kinda a pervy question to ask, man. What the hell were  _ you _ thinking about?”

 

He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help from barking back, “Piss off, that’s none of your fucking business.” 

 

“Oh, so it’s okay for you to ask me that?” Peter laughs, and Angel can hear him shifting around on his bed. “No, wait, let me guess. You were thinking about me, weren’t you? Come on, admit it, I’ve seen the way you stare at me with all that sexy hatred in your eyes.”

 

Angel knows he’s joking, but that doesn’t stop his heart from racing. The second Peter finds out the truth, Angel’s reputation, ego, and heart were going to go up in flames. He’s been broken and rejected by so many people, which is why he refuses to admit anything to Peter in the first place. It’s hell of a lot easier to be an absolute ass to someone rather than risking heartbreak again. His silence, however, speaks far more than he anticipates because Peter whispers, “...You weren’t seriously thinking of me, were you?”

 

“What? You, just… f-fuck off, Speedy, you're not that hot. And maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t, what the fuck are you gonna do about it?” The bite in his voice isn’t as sharp as he’d like it, but it’ll suffice. He just needs to scare Peter off, no matter how much that little voice in his head screams at him to take this one and only opportunity. He can’t take the risk, no matter how much he wants to. Funny how he’s more willing to plunge off of a crumbling building, rather than tell a boy how much he wants to suck his dick. 

 

…

 

Any and all humor left in Peter’s lungs evaporates, leaving his mouth dry and eyes wide. He’s staring at that shark on the wall, its gaping maw just as terrifying as the idea that Angel thought of him too. What the hell is going on today? Is the rain bringing out everyone’s repressed emotions? If he went downstairs right now, would he catch everyone else having deep heart-to-hearts and discovering their inner selves? Sounds like something out of a cheap, teen drama… 

 

He’s glad, so glad, that Angel can’t see him. See the hesitation and confusion and realization on his face. Memories flash through his mind, replays of every moment they were near each other. Whether it was Angel yelling at him or flicking burnt cigarettes in his direction, they all had one thing in common - Angel was staring at him. It was a blank look, not malicious, but calculating. Peter feels a shiver crawl down his spine thinking about those dark, piercing eyes, and he really can’t repeat how thankful he is that Angel can’t see him. No one else, in his entire life, looked at him that way, stared at him like a hawk waiting to pounce on its prey. Not going to lie, it kinda turns him on a little, even though he wishes it didn’t. 

 

Angel is a jerk, but he’s a hot jerk and they both happen to be in the same place at the same time. Not to mention, they were both shoving their hands down their pants. His only options seem to be admit defeat and leave, or stay and finish what he started. Although, the latter choice now includes an audience, an audience that had Peter on the mind and vice versa. Maybe just this once, he can let down his guard and see how fun this birdbrain can be. He might regret it later, but the hormones clouding his judgment say to go for it. 

 

Peter drops his voice and asks, “What were you thinking about exactly?” He can hear Angel scoff, so he continues with a little more authority in his voice, “Tell me.”

 

It’s silent in both rooms, one refusing to acknowledge the question, the other waiting for a response. There’s temptation to go over to his room and knock on the door, but Angel takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t know, mostly… about you. And I swear to fucking God, Peter, if you tell anyone about this I’ll-”

 

“What specifically?”

 

Peter can hear him sputtering, opening his mouth and snapping it shut. He wonders if he went too far, then again, they both happen to be in the middle of private time while talking to one another about their dirty thoughts, so they’re both too deep in the water to swim back up. Might as well drown together. Angel refuses to say another word or lacks the capacity to, so Peter does most of the talking. “Alright, if you’re not gonna say anything, I’ll go. I, uh, I couldn’t really think of much while I was screwing around, so I tried to think of, like, a shadow or something. I mean, there’s not a lot of people I wanna play tonsil hockey with, so, ya know, I had to improvise.”

 

He jumps a little when Angel asks, “Like what?”

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

“Like… what the hell were you doing with your shadow sex toy, dipshit?”

 

Peter could snap back, but screw it, there’s a little excitement flowing through his bloodstream and he wants to get to the good stuff. “ _ Pssh _ , blowing bubbles. What the hell do you think?”

 

“Be specific.”

 

“I will if you tell me what you were thinking about, unless you’re too much of a chickenshit to say anything.”

 

He can’t help but smirk because he got the kid right where he wants him. Angel’s too much of a show off to turn down a challenge, so he’d get an answer, unless the boy wants to sound like a coward. Then again, he’s stubborn as all hell, too. It’ll be a while before he choses to speak up, he’s got his pride on the line after all, something he values more than the leather jacket on his back. All the pigeon seems capable of producing are coughs and the occasional sniffle, his fingers drumming on the wooden frame of his bed. Peter’s ready to call him out, but Angel beats him to the punch, “Fuck… I was… I was thinking about making out with you and… you touching me, alright? Now piss off and tell me, or I’ll kick your sorry ass.” Charming. Utterly charming. Really, Peter could totally see the kid’s appeal.

 

Forget about the threat, did he hear that first part correctly? Making out and touching? Peter can’t fight off the image that creeps into his brain, of Angel grabbing his hair and shoving his tongue in his mouth, rough and wet and a little too exhilarating. Why does that thought get his blood pumping? Better yet, why is he having this little conversation in the first place? Is he that desperate for a little action, or is it something else? Too many damn questions, but he’s not going to stop for answers. His body has had enough waiting and he’s starting to think with his other head. There’s nothing to lose at this point, so he decides to screw around with the giant chicken.

 

Peter leans his head against the wall, a hand slipping over his boxers, in between his legs, his voice huskier than usual, “Kick my ass? Wouldn’t you rather stick your dick in it?” All noises on the other side of the wall stop, so he continues, “You really wanna know what I was thinking about while I was jerking off, huh? I was thinking about someone on top of me, biting me and running their hands all over…”

 

Peter bites his lip and gropes himself over his underwear, the soft skin underneath getting harder and warmer by the second. Just for show, he lets out the smallest of groans, a chuckle following it. There’s frantic shuffling in the other room and an unsubtle thud against the wall, probably Angel putting his ear against it. He’s having too much fun doing this that he nearly misses the boy saying, “Keep going.”

 

“Hmm… maybe. Or I could jerk off and let you listen, how about that?”

 

…

 

Holy shit. Angel knows he’s a complete and total piece of crap, so he honestly doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. Peter, the mutant he’s been daydreaming about since he walked in the front door, is now on the other side of him, making noises and saying things that are getting him riled up beyond belief. He nearly shouts back, “Fuck yes.” to which Peter laughs at, his voice throaty and it makes Angel’s blood pump faster, heading straight towards his groin. His hand shoots straight down his pants, groping at himself without a care. He releases a shaky breath, and Lord help him, he hears a responding one from the other room. This is too hot and too surreal to handle, his only anchor in reality being Peter’s voice, honest and real and so fucking sexy. 

 

Peter says, “I’m more of a visual kind of guy, so… what’re you wearing?” There’s a little humor in his voice, so there’s a chance that he’s not being serious, but Angel doesn’t give a shit.

 

“Just jeans and nothing else.” He answers, he doesn’t expect to hear a hiss in response.

 

“Shit… In that case, I’m overdressed.” 

 

Angel can hear him shuffling around, and when he asks what he’s doing, the reply is, “Taking off my shirt. Just so you know, I’ve only got boxers on now.”

 

He closes his eyes and can see the image so clearly in his mind - Peter, sprawling out in his bed, practically naked, pumping himself and panting. Angel hums, and when he gets a noise in response, he licks his palm and grabs his length in hand. It’s pulsing, his heart beating away underneath his thumb. He slowly strokes himself, groaning out loud, the cover of rain muting it from the rest of the household, not that he cares. If Peter’s going to put on a show, so can he. Breathlessly, Angel says, “Fuck… I wanna see you…” 

 

Peter takes a sharp breath and sighs. Angel can hear him gulp and spit into his palm, the sound of material shuffling around and dropping on the floor, followed by a hum. He’s beyond sure Peter just stripped himself of his last article of clothing, meaning that he is now in his room, on his bed, completely naked and touching himself. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s half-hard and has his hand wrapped around his dick, Angel probably would've jizzed himself by now. 

 

“Y-yeah? What do you wanna see exactly?”

 

Everything, Angel wants to see everything. All the way from the top of his messy, silver head to his curling toes. Hell, he’d die a happy manjust being able to look at Peter and nothing more. Observe the rise and fall of his chest, the expressions on his face, and his hands groping every sensitive spot he can reach. The mere thought of him so raw and vulnerable is too erotic for words, and Angel can’t help but loll his head back and pump himself, his words shaky as he says, “I wanna watch you fuck yourself.” 

 

Peter lets out a moan, something that resonates within Angel and makes heat flood in the pit of his belly. His wings stretch out, fluttering unconsciously, and he doesn't realize it until he hears the tips of his metal feathers grazing the wall. He doesn't want to acknowledge them, in all their clunky, noisy glory, it would ruin the mood. “Come on, man,” Angel says, fighting down a gasp as he thumbs at the tip of his length, “Talk dirty to me.” 

 

There's a few snickers coming from the other side. Of course Peter wouldn't take the request seriously, Angel really shouldn't feel surprised. “Alright, alright, quit it, you asshole.” He says, and Peter's just as quick to say, “Sorry, I just… I don't really know what to say.” 

 

Has Peter never talked dirty before? That's a discovery that's somewhat adorable. He may be full grown, but Angel doubts he ever ventured into more raunchy territory. On the other hand, he is a bit of an expert himself, given the copious amounts of partners that demanded filthy words to go with their filthy actions. The rain is still coming down hard and everyone is still downstairs, so they have plenty of time to give it a go. Angel takes a deep breath and gently rolls his hips up, the sensation of himself sliding into his fist enough to feed his hungry body. Dirty talk isn't hard, especially if it's based on current thoughts and actions, so Angel decides to test the waters a little. “Want me to talk, then?” He says and Peter hums in agreement, so he drops his voice and continues, “Mmm, fuck, Peter… you're really killing me with those noises you're making. Makes me want to go over there right now and see how loud you can get.” 

 

Angel smirks when he hears Peter mewl, stroking himself faster. Honestly, he'd give anything to be in Peter's room right now, just to see him squirm and fuck his fist like a madman. He could, but… but then what? Would they touch and kiss and screw each other's brains out like he's always fantasized? Or would they sit there and look at each other awkwardly until their boners were more flaccid than dead fish? It seems too risky to try, he has to be happy with what he’s got. Not that he's complaining, but he's a glutton for sex and no matter how many times he says this is enough, he won't feel complete satisfaction until he has Peter screaming underneath him.  

 

…

 

Peter's in a daze. He's staring at the ceiling, hand wrapped tightly around his length, and jerking himself off at a steady pace. He's also not completely sure why he took off his boxers, considering the fact someone might come knocking on his door, but it was a spur of the moment thing and it just made the situation hotter. Just like Angel’s words were making his skin hot and his head dizzy. 

 

He pushes his bangs back from his sweaty forehead as he processes the boy's words, letting them infiltrate his mind and fill him up. Interesting and involuntary thoughts flood his imagination, of Angel forcing himself inside Peter, filling him up and fucking him. He twitches and bites onto his free hand, the salty taste of sweat gracing his fingertips. Peeking down, he can see his length in his palm, swelling up with blood and growing harder, a balloon getting ready to pop. Beyond that is an area he hasn't touched much, not that he isn't curious, but those thoughts of Angel being there -  _ inside _ of there - make him simultaneously exhilarated and anxious. Angel’s expecting a response, so maybe he could toy with the idea. 

 

“I… I think I'd get really loud if I had your cock inside me.” Peter says, his voice shaking. He doesn't expect to hear the other outright moan and pant, more than likely furiously stroking himself like the horny teenager he is. Although, when he remembers that the mutant he's dealing with is, in fact, still technically a teenager - a teenager he just told he wants inside him - he wonders if he should feel a little shameful. Eh, screw it, it's too damn late to worry about stuff like that, and any shame he had left went out the window to drown in rain water. 

 

“Didn’t peg you as a bottom, but I’m not complaining.” Angel says, producing a half-baked chuckle that morphs into a hum. “Shit… you have no idea how badly I wanna do that.”

 

“Yeah? How badly do you wanna fuck me?”

 

Unbeknownst to him, Angel shifts onto his knees and leans his head against the wall. He’s panting, eyes shut tight and face contorted in pleasure, his hips only picking up speed as he slams into his fist. Peter doesn’t know about the horribly lewd thoughts running through his head, brutal images of the both of them covered in scratches, bite marks, and bodily fluids. Angel startles the both of them when he folds his wings in and scrapes the wall, but he lets out a throaty groan to keep the attention where he wants it. He can barely get the words out, “I- oh fuck… I wanna bend you over my bed, and f-fuck you until everyone can hear you scream.” 

 

Peter arches off the bed a bit, his hand moving at a faster pace. Although, given his mutant power deals with speed, he has to stop because he’s going too fast and it makes him chafe. He spits into his palm once more and thoroughly squeezes his length from base to tip, earning a pearl of precum. A little more comes out and slowly drips down when he thinks about Angel’s pretty lips wrapped around his cock. It's ironic how he spent his time fretting over the kid earlier, and now, he couldn't get him out of his mind. Angel on top of him, between his legs, biting him and kissing him and wrapping his hands around Peter's throat as he fucks him silly. Just a little more, and he'll be pushing himself over the edge, no turning back. Not that he wants to. 

 

All he can hear is his own panting, so he nearly misses Angel saying, “Are you close?”

 

“Yeah… you?” 

 

“Pretty close. Please keep making those noises, I wanna hear you.” 

 

Peter complies and releases a moan, a little exaggerated, but he gets a noise just as loud in return. It becomes a small competition between them, each one trying to outdo the other in terms of volume. If it wasn't for the rain, everyone across the entire mansion would hear them. Although, they'd probably think they were having a really intense fight. When he thinks about it, it is sort of a fight, with each one trying to show off how damn good they were feeling. Would whoever came first be the winner or the loser? Angel scares him when he slams a hand against the wall and outright growls, panting so hard Peter can feel it in his chest. 

 

“Peter… I'm gonna cum…”

 

Good God. That's probably the hottest thing to ever grace his ears. He can picture Angel’s face, cheeks pink and mouth agape as he voices his pleasure, his cock leaking and making a sticky mess. Peter feels heat pool in his belly, his body tightening and threatening to release. “I wanna hear you cum.” He says, and the result is beautiful. 

 

On the other side of the wall, Angel throws his head back and shouts, stroking his length furiously as spurt after spurt comes out of him and splatters against the wall. He squeezes out every last drop, cum drooling from the tip onto his bed. His head feels too light to fully operate, the only thing he can comprehend is the warmth surging throughout his body and making him feel so good and so heavy. Angel doesn't realize he's moving until he slumps forward and smacks his cheek against the wall, but he feels too good to care. His mouth is so dry, he can barely say, “Come- come on, Peter… cum for me.” 

 

No point in holding back anymore. His hand speeds up to the point of it vibrating, and immediately, Peter feels a warmth surge throughout his body. He can't hear himself moan, the blood pumping through his ears is deafening, and he's too distracted by the colors exploding underneath his eyelids to notice. There's a few splashes against his belly, thick fluid dribbling over his fingers that burns his skin. He doesn't realize he's arching off the mattress until he falls back down and pants for breath, his limbs which felt so airy before now feeling heavy enough to break the bed. All Peter can do is drunkenly stare at the ceiling and release a few sobs, twitching occasionally. Truth be told, he doesn't remember the last time he felt something that intense, especially to leave him in this state. Maybe he should do this more often. It's like his head is underneath water, it feels too heavy to lift and refuses to function properly, so it takes Peter a moment to notice Angel is talking to him. 

 

“Peter?” 

 

“...Yeah?” 

 

“Uh…” It's quiet for a moment, so much so, that Peter turns his head to stare at the wall until Angel continues, “Thanks.” 

 

“For what? I didn't think listening in on me while I jerk off was something to be thankful for.” 

 

There's faint chuckling, Angel is too exhausted to put much effort into it. “Nah, it's just… forget it. I'm too tired to talk right now.” 

 

“I can imagine, you were loud as hell.”

 

“So were you.” Angel lets out a yawn, falling back on his bed, but before he does, Peter catches him mumbling, “We should do this again sometime.” 

  
He stares at the ceiling, the sweat and cum on his body drying and leaving him a sticky mess. At least the rain is dying down some more, enough that he can hear a few kids running outside. Maybe he could run out there real quick to rinse himself off, mostly because he didn't have the energy to take a proper shower. Or, maybe… maybe he could go in the next room over. There's a lot of things he could do right now, but they all melt into a blur as his eyes slip shut. Oh, well, Peter can always deal with everything later. 

**Author's Note:**

> I might include a second part to this, but I'm not entirely sure.   
> As usual, any comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. If you want to contact me with any requests or are curious about commisions, you can reach me at 23monsterboy on tumblr. Thank you for reading.


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